Epilogue – Freedom's Just Another Word

Epilogue – Freedom's Just Another Word

Once, when sitting on a bomb, I discovered that your life doesn't flash before your eyes in the face of imminent death. Nope, this philosophic wanna-be's deep thoughts had been: "Holy crap, I'm gonna die."

Hobbes' last words, when he thought he was sitting on a similar bomb, had been a bit more significant: "I love you, Claire." That had come as no big surprise to me, much to Alex's disappointment when she'd finally let the cat out of the bag. Nope, I'd known he'd loved Claire, even as I was betraying him by stealing her love.

Now I can try to justify that betrayal all I want with talk about Right and Necessity, but it's never going to change one simple fact to an eye-for-an-eye kind of guy like Hobbes. I willfully betrayed him. I knowingly made him my enemy.

So perhaps it's fitting that as I wait for my former friend, the only quote that comes to mind is from the Bible: "Have you found me, O my enemy?"

He stood facing the waves, hands in his pockets, still breathing in a slow, steady rhythm. As he stared out at the dark horizon, it wasn't his mother, or Kevin, or Claire, or even Nicole of whom he thought. It was Adam Reese. He'd never seen the young boy returned to the life he should have had -- another regret in a lifetime full.

He'd once told Adam that sometimes you had to sit tight and wait for things to come back into your control. Well, he'd sat tight at the Agency until he'd been able to take control of his life -- and Claire's – and plunged them both into the whirlwind. To all appearances, he'd succeeded. He was a rich man and no longer a slave to the Agency. The master of his own fate, some would say.

But for all that effort and will, he still had the gland in his head. He was still a slave to the Counteragent. He'd never been able to gain that ultimate freedom. And he was standing on a beach waiting for Hobbes, for his fate, to come to him.

He heard the soft sand shift under footsteps behind him. "Fawkes, don't you know never to leave your back exposed? Didn't you listen to anything I ever told you?"

"Yeah, well, there was a time when all I needed to know was that you had my back, Bobby." Darien turned to face Hobbes. His former partner had changed since Monte Carlo – he was thinner now and what little hair he had left was white. His eyes, though, were exactly the same. Riveting in the intensity of their gaze. Haunting in their unspoken accusations.

"The only person who changed that was you. And don't try to pull that buddy-buddy first name crap on me. I'm not falling for it, Darien."

Darien heard his name come from Hobbes' lips and felt the white-hot chill of it sear the depths of his soul. Hobbes had rarely used his first name, only when he was desperate or panicked. Now he'd turned that name into a channel for all the hatred and anger and sorrow that Darien had caused him. He'd twisted it and spat it out as though it was the worst sort of epithet. Darien wished he'd simply called him a mother-fu**er and been done with it.

Darien sighed and walked towards his ex-partner. "All right then, Hobbes, let's dispense with the pleasantries. What is it you want? What is it exactly that you think you're going to do here?"

"Simple. I'm doing what I always warned you I would if you stepped back over to the dark side. Bobby Hobbes is taking you in, my friend."

Hobbes pulled out his gun and stuck it point-blank into Darien's chest. Darien looked at the gun and remembered when Hobbes had done the same thing outside Cabriel Hospital. His eyes had been silver then and he'd asked Hobbes to join him in his madness. He briefly considered doing the same now, but rejected the idea. No, Hobbes' help had simply landed him back at the Agency then. He'd end up in Hell this time, if Hobbes had his way.

"Where, Hobbes? Just exactly where are you taking me in to? You're not with the Agency anymore and no other outfit would have you. Besides, what are you going to charge me with? You haven't got any proof -- none that isn't classified, none that would be believed."

"There's Claire, she'll tell the truth once she's away from you, under oath, even if she is your wife."

"She's dead, Bobby. Claire's dead."

"Dead?" Hobbes continued to hold the gun on Darien, but it shook ever so slightly now. He dipped his head and massaged his temples with his free hand.

"Yes, Bobby. I'm sorry. She died about a month ago. Cancer...," Darien's voice broke as he choked on the word.

"God damn you, you bastard. Don't tell me you're sorry. You didn't love her. She was a tool to you, a means to get that gland out of your head. You just stole her ... you stole her life. You stole my life."

"No, Hobbes. I stole my life. I stole it back from Kevin, from the gland, from that damn agency you're still paying misguided allegiance to. They don't want you or your allegiance, Hobbes. They don't even want my life. All they want is the damn gland. Don't let them have it, Bobby. For God's sake, don't let them have it. For my sake ... for Claire's sake ...."

"Wrong answer, Fawkes. I'll see you dead before I hear you speak her name to me again." Hobbes' gun hand steadied as he pushed the weapon into Darien's chest.

And once again it was as simple as breathing. He felt the coolness of Quicksilver slide over his body as he faded from sight. All that remained was his whispered, "Please, Bobby. I have never wanted to hurt you...."

With a sharp intake of breath, Hobbes stared at the nothingness that had been Darien. Darien wondered briefly why his former partner should be so shocked. Hobbes had seen him pull this particular stunt countless times when they had been younger ... when they had been friends.

"So, she didn't take it out after all," Hobbes surmised as he whirled about, reaching his free arm out to try and locate Darien. "I should have known she wouldn't be fooled by you. She always was the smartest."

"You're wrong, you know, Bobby. I did love her. Maybe not like she deserved to be loved ... maybe not like you would have loved her ... but I did love her. And she would not have wanted it to end like this between us."

Darien stood behind Bobby now. Had he been Quicksilver mad, he would only have had to reach out his arm and snap the smaller man's neck to finish it. But it had been years since he'd been subjected to the madness, years since he'd felt that murderous rage infuse his veins. It was precisely the urge to extinguish that rage that had led him to make his escape. Now he was perfectly sane ... and completely incapable of harming the one man who held his freedom in his grasp, who had given him his unconditional friendship -- the one man he had betrayed beyond all reason.

But Hobbes didn't know that. Not when his instincts kicked in. Not when they told him that Darien was behind him and too close for comfort. Not when he pulled trigger. Not even when he watched the only friend he'd ever truly had come back into sight, lying in the surf.

Hobbes stared at the hole gaping in Darien's chest -- the hole he'd put there. Dazed by the realization of what he'd done, he knelt at his former partner's side and stared into Darien's perfectly clear, brown eyes. "God, Fawkes ... I'm sorry ... Jesus, this is bad ...."

Darien grabbed Hobbes hand. "No ... Bobby ... never wanted to hurt you ... never wanted to hurt Claire ... just wanted to be ... free." And with one last exhale of breath, he was.

I never was much for this quote thing, you know? That was always Fawkes' shtick. That guy, he always had one to fit the situation. A frickin' walking Bartleby's Quotation book, he was. So how the hell do I wind up being the one standing here picking out his headstone? It's a weird world out there, my friends. But you know what? I think I got one for him. I remembered it from grade school, of all places. Frickin' spinster English teacher made us memorize it. Like Bobby Hobbes didn't have nothing better to do. I think he would have approved though ... nah, I'm sure he would have. Yeah, I'm sure I'm sure:

Vanquished in life, his death

By beauty made amends:

The passing of his breath

Won his defeated ends.

-- Lionel Pigot Johnson, British poet,
By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross

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